


Never Thought That You'd Come

by llunation



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llunation/pseuds/llunation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I open the door to see an irritated Brendon Urie.</p><p>"I had a wedding."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Thought That You'd Come

I open the door to see an irritated Brendon Urie.

“I had a wedding,” he said, staring hard at me, boring holes into my skin.

“Congratulations,” I say back without thought, unblinking at his sudden appearance. I was still processing the fact that he was even him at my door. Half of me was sure I was dreaming, hallucinating, making this all up to keep me happy. Possibly-not-real-Brendon gives me a look of tired disbelief before pushing past me.

I watch as his form tracks though my house, easily navigating it as if he had been here just last week. Turning into the living room, he sits on my couch as if he owns the place, as if I had invited him in, as if he belonged there. “Beer?” I offer, knowing exactly how to please the apparition. He nods without looking at me, still taking in the surroundings. I give him a last glance before walking to my kitchen.

It’s as I’m pouring the second glass that I realize the fact that there is a very alive and very unannounced Brendon Urie in my house. I peek out of the kitchen to double check, and nearly let out an audible gasp seeing that he was still there, looking around my living room in mild interest from his spot on the couch. Darting back into the kitchen, I try to return my breathing back to normal. I couldn’t let him see me go completely crazy just because of his presence.

“Thanks,” he says – forced niceties – before taking the drink from my hand and quickly bringing to his lips. I try not to watch as he drinks, hiding my view from behind my own glass. I move and sit in a chair, ignoring the fact that, before, I would have gone for the space on the sofa next to him. I force myself to lean back in it, although my back is rigid and my level of anxiousness rising with every passing moment. Why was he here?

He looks at me with his wide knowing brown eyes before repeating himself, “I had a wedding.” I nod, bringing the mug back up to my mouth to avoid saying anything. He sighs dramatically before continuing. “Where were you?”

I shrug, looking around my own living room as if I’d never seen it before. “I told you I couldn’t come. I had… other things.”

“Yeah, movies from like, 2006,” he shoots back. I look at him, raising an eyebrow. Regardless of the fact that he didn’t follow me on half of the social networks we were mutually on, he still saw my various posts. Even though his stuff is even more embarrassing than mine, I cringe internally to think of whatever other things he may have seen me share.

We sit in silence for a while, both of us drinking our beers and avoiding the other’s gaze. Was he really here to ask why I actually hadn’t gone? Why I had called him up and denied his invitation to what was apparently the new best day of his life? A feeling of revulsion went through me, whether it was from the alcohol or his presence, I didn’t know. If he came here for some sick confessional from me he can forget it. I don’t need to justify my actions to him.

I’m staring at him, the fact dawns on me suddenly. How long ago had my attempt at keeping my eyes averted failed? Damn him, walking into my house, sitting in my chair, drinking my beer, making me feel like I can’t stare at my sofa if I wanted to. I should move my eyes away, but I don’t. Instead I take in the man who sits across from me in my living room.

Because that’s what he is now, a man. He’s no longer the boy I left behind with my best friend, secretly wishing that our creation would crash and burn. He’s not the same person, barely an adult, I had turned my back on mercilessly, the tears in his eyes doing nothing to me as I ended it all.

His face has filled out, the once soft curves now jut into sharp corners, a bit of scruff decorates his lower face, neatly clipped and even across the pale skin. His hair, while not the best cut I’ve seen him have, is well groomed and no longer falling over his forehead and hiding his eyes. Even from across the room I can see he’s gained muscle and is no longer the lanky kid I knew. No, this version of Brendon Urie is far from being the one that I know.

He’s grown up, matured.

A man.

He’s looking at me and I realize I am unashamed at having been so openly watching him. His own gaze is calculating, no doubt taking me in just as I had done to him. We’re both searching for the same things. We’re looking for the differences time brought to us, comparing and contrasting everything from hair styles to shoe brands. We’re trying to find reasons to not feel the way that we once did.

“I was convinced you would show,” Brendon finally says, his eyes flicking down to stare at the beer in his hands. “I thought that maybe you would, I don’t know, just waltz in and surprise me like you always do.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to continue, but I know it will take him a moment. There’s no doubt in my mind that he is recalling the same memories as I am: the night in the cabin at the piano, the impromptu sharing of beds, the first time he knew the touch of my fingertips. I _had_ always been full of surprises for him, all the way up to the surprise of my departure

“But you didn’t,” he said, his voice hardly a whisper. “Sarah had told me it was a fruitless endevour.” I shiver involuntarily at the name, my eyes narrowing slightly. I look down the length of the strange yet all too familiar hand to see the band wrapped around his fourth finger and they narrow further. If Brendon notices, he doesn’t say anything.

A weird noise comes from his throat and I look up to see what is wrong with him. “I even had a place card for you,” he says loudly, angrier now. He stares me dead in the eye and I still stare at him with the most impassive face I can muster because, inside, I’m starting to break.

“I had the spot saved for you at the reception. You were my table. Do you know how much it hurt to have an empty spot two chairs away, knowing exactly who is supposed to be there for you? And you weren’t – you weren’t there for me Ryan.”

“You knew I wasn’t coming, why would you do something as stupid as that?” I shoot back, my voice quivering with what I hoped sounded like irritation. How dare he come into my house, take my beer, and proceed to guilt trip me. I had left for a reason. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was necessary. I couldn’t be what he wanted, I wouldn’t allow myself.

Brendon glares at me, and for the first time since his arrival, I can see the Brendon I knew. It was just a hint, a small sliver of uncertainty and pain glinting in his eyes. The sight stings me, pierces straight to the blood pumping organ just beneath pale skin of my chest.

The entirety of the unfolding events was too much for me. It was too surreal, this couldn’t be happening. I was at an unfair advantage. Brendon had time to plan, time to think his thoughts through and collect himself before coming. I on the other hand was a deer caught in headlights. I had to think on my toes to stay ahead, and I was failing.

I was failing so miserably. He was prepared and I was not. He had thought of the emotions he would have coming here, and I had not. He could easily be angry at me, be angry at my actions, both past and present. I could not.

I was not angry, and that was my biggest flaw.

Brendon could march in my home unannounced, place blame on me where it wasn’t due, bring up the past and send blows, both mentally or even physically, and I couldn’t be mad. I could never be mad, not at him.

How could I?

I can feel myself breaking, falling apart. I was reaching the peak of my angry façade and it was all a downhill spiral from here. “Why did you come here?” I ask, forcing my voice to be hard and unforgiving. “Did you really come to complain about my lack of presence? You know exactly why I was not there. Why the hell are you here?”

My glare at him is unwavering, although I can feel as pieces of myself begin to fall even faster now inside of me. I silently dare him to ask me to spell it out, dare him to demand that I state my reasons. If he did, I wouldn’t be surprised if I screamed them to him.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t. Brendon has no answer for me, or no will to share that answer with me. Does he have an answer? I’m fairly certain of it. It wouldn’t be a smart move if he came here without answer to a question that would inevitably be asked. I would probably never know the answer, though; I lost the right to know his answers years ago.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry to bother you.” He stands up so suddenly that it takes me a few seconds to fully realize what he had said. By the time it registers and I stand up, he’s walking out the exit of the room to the entry hallway.

“Brendon,” I say, my mouth suddenly feeling thick, my words only coming out with difficulty. He couldn’t be leaving, not just yet. “Bren, wait!” I don’t care how pathetic I’m sounding; he can’t leave, not yet. “Bden!”

I make it to the hallway as he stops, his hand on the door. I expect him to pull it open and to leave – to walk out just as I did to him, the memory of his back the last thing for me to recall for the next however many years – but he doesn’t. I don’t know what’s made him pause, an epiphany, a forgotten belonging in the living room, the use of an old nickname.

My pace slows as I assert that he isn’t taking off any time soon. I’m still facing Brendon’s back, and I take a deep breath before I grab at his shoulder. I do my best to not notice how much thicker it is than the last time I touched him as I pull to turn him around. He doesn’t resist.

We’re facing each other, our eyes staring into each other’s, searching for answers to old questions, pleading for second chances and pondering a life not lived.

I had his full attention and had no idea what to say.

I wanted to ask him to stay. To stay and never leave like I did. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I had been misguided and selfish and a child. I wanted to plead for his forgiveness. I wanted to apologize for not going to his fucking wedding.

I wanted to say so many things.

“Why did you come.” My voice is a whisper, shaking as the words hardly leave my lips. It is no longer a question but a statement, a statement trying to express everything I want to say to him but can’t. Brendon looks sadly at me, but it’s not a sadness for what was missed. The look is starting to be pity.

He opens his mouth just slightly, and I lose control. My movements are no longer conscious and I am merely observing as my body moves on its own accord. I watch as hands grab at the man, pulling him in closer. I catch the strangely familiar scent and hear a slight hum before lips touch.

The scene before me does not stop there and I am cheering as the unseen person keeps their mouth locked with Brendon’s, as they run their fingers through his hair and tugs on it just slightly. I can’t see it, but I know that my protagonist is smiling through the kiss.

Brendon doesn’t respond though. He is static and unchanging. A momentary glimpse shows me that he is only staring on, emotionless, and my cheers slow as I watch on in confusion. It then hits me: I am not a mere onlooker. I am my protagonist, the unseen character and this film is real life. I am the one smelling his familiar scent, the one who is tasting the beer and cigarettes on the younger man’s lips, the one who is making such a fool out of himself.

I am the man that is so desperately trying to get one last kiss. One last kiss before…

Before what? What was coming that was so necessary that I felt so compelled to kiss this man. What was going to happen that decided that I should lose control and let myself act without my own permission? Before we die? Please, we’re both in our twenties. We are far too young to die.

  
Perhaps, though, it is before I realize that I never got over him as much as I claimed to have had. Maybe before I realize how hopeless and pathetic I am for still wanting him. But it’s too late. I’ve realized. I am far more entangled in him than he is now with me.

I pull away in horror and I can only stare up at Brendon. His face is impassive and he had been stone still throughout my unwarranted attack. His silence tells me what I already know: I am pathetic. 

My hands are still lightly touching his arms, and he gives me one last look that I cannot read, one that could possibly be filled with confusion, or maybe pity at my own sad attempts to win him back. It is too late for me to do so now. I missed his wedding and I missed out on all the opportunities the last few years could have given us. I have ruined any chances of making this right. 

He shakes his head slowly and looks away from me. Without another word he pulls the door open and walks away, his body slipping through my fingers. They fall to my sides as the door shuts behind him.

Deadness fills me and I don’t notice my body sliding to the floor until I am crumpled against the wall. I cannot feel my body. My hands were numb my legs were non-existent. For all I knew I was merely a figment pausing in this dark hallway.

The emotions were quite the opposite. Every bit of feeling inside of me was welling up and making their presence known. They are buzzing through my head creating a hurricane that I have no chance of escaping. Every ounce of emotion I was feeling though came to the same conclusion: I’d fucked up. I cannot fix this. Brendon is gone.

I never smoked as much as he did, but now more than anything I wanted a cigarette. I wanted – no, needed – to feel the small cylinder between my lips, to have the toxins fill my body and exhale the stinging smoke from my lungs in hopes that his memory will go with it. I try to move my body toward the living room where I know a pack is stashed, but nothing responds to my will. I merely sink lower thank I already was.

I am unsure of how long I stay on the floor. The only thing there is for me to do is to think. I begin the create reasons for why Brendon came and why he wanted me at his weeding. There is only one thing that I am sure of and that is that he didn’t want me to come to rub it in his face and parade around what I had lost. I wonder if possibly he wanted me there to stop him, to remind him of how happy we once were together. I know that being there as a friend was out of the question; I had made the fact that ‘just friends’ was never in the cards for us. But perhaps he just needed a reminder and, perhaps, he would have come back to me.

At some point I can feel something hot and wet fall onto my arms. Simultaneously I realize two things at once, but I do not bother to move my now functioning arm to be sure of the other one. The splashes are enough. I don’t bother to move myself from the hallway. What’s the point?

I fucked up.

I cannot fix it.

Brendon Urie is gone.


End file.
